


My One and Lonely

by frerarcl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgardians - Freeform, At first anyways, Blackmail, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Reader, POV Third Person, Pre-Thor (2011), Servants, Slow Burn, but damn it he deserves to be happy, i didnt know which one to tag so i tagged both, it's a bit manipulative admittedly but it gets better i swear, kind of a loki/reader but also kind of a loki/oc, loki's a bit of a dick, not immediately though, reader goes by a fake name, some tie-ins with gotg later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frerarcl/pseuds/frerarcl
Summary: The tale of twenty-five Vanir refugees-turned-Asgardian servants who aren't as they seem, and one crown prince of Asgard who knows a lie when he hears one.The tale of one Vanir village elder far too young to bear her title, and one man who wants to know why.The tale of double-lives colliding and taking two people who know too much (and not enough) down with them.





	1. Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> mentioned this in the tags, but in case you missed them:  
> this was originally intended to be a loki/reader fic (and still is!), but i hate doing the whole "y/n" thing because it kills the immersion imo so reader will be referred to by a fake name, which will be explained later on.  
> so, kind of loki/ofc, but with little description of the character - enough that you can /hopefully/ put yourself in her shoes!

The light that surrounded the group pulsed bright gold, with full spectrums of light threading through in streaks of varying thickness. She was vaguely aware of a dropping out in the pit of her stomach, and the sensation of moving at an incredibly high speed, but she was so enchanted by the visual aspect that it was hard to focus on anything her body was experiencing. She knew, deep down, that she really should have been making an effort to remember everything she’d memorized over the past two years. However, the forefront of her mind was painted a million different colors by the Bifrost, and she never wanted the strangely weightless feeling and flashing beauty of the thinly-veiled galaxies the group passed through its dazzling beams to leave her. All too soon, though, the light deposited them with a push forward into a gilded dome, occupied in the center by a tall man coated in golden armor from head to toe and sporting a dangerously horned helm. Her eyes moved about the space, taking in the discs that lined the walls and moved as gears before resting once more on the man in the center of his raised platform.  _ Heimdall, the All-Seer, _ her training whispered, and with the realization came piqued interest. A ghost of a smile played over his features as he scanned her group.

“Welcome to Asgard,” he said, and his voice seemed to reverberate into her very bones. It was deep and accented in a way she hadn’t expected, but that she was fully aware she could mimic. She stepped forward as the leader of the five people surrounding her, bowing a knee and crossing her right arm over her chest, allowing her fist to rest at her heart, just as she had practiced for hours until it felt normal. 

“My name is Sigrid Steinarsdottir,” she lied, in an accent as close to the gold-clad man’s as she could. “I speak for this group of Vanir refugees. Thank you for allowing us safe and easy passage into your realm.” The All-Seer’s golden gaze was suspicious, and she had no doubt he had easily seen through her statement, but he said nothing of it and instead bowed his head towards the bridge, motioning for them to follow the bridge beneath their feet out towards the Aesir capital with the rest of the so-called refugees. 

She didn’t have to be motioned twice.

Her feet crossed the bridge with more authority than they maybe should have, though her eyes danced across the prismatic material beneath them. The rest of her team waited ahead, as they knew she’d be in the last group. The twenty-four other people let her pass easily through, and for a moment, she wondered if she shouldn’t draw herself in more. After all, she was supposed to be fleeing a war she’d barely survived, and the trauma that would cause if it were the case would surely make her a bit less confident in stride. She couldn’t bring herself to do so, she decided. The Aesir were known for their high regard of strength, she’d learned, and if she wanted the favor she so desperately needed, she’d have to convince them of her worth. Being mortal by their definition was not helpful; she had to fight harder than most for the end goal here. The fate of everyone she knew, everyone the people behind her knew, rode on them, as dramatic as it sounded even to her own ears. She began the long trek down the Bifrost, into the waiting city of gold and gods sprawled out ahead.

 

* * *

 

When all that was left before the woman and the band of people behind her was the royal palace, she had to fight the urge to celebrate or pass out. She knew that the Bifrost was the primary form of transportation between the ‘realms,’ as they called them here, but she hadn’t realized that it also ran centrally through the entire city. The walk had taken a couple of hours of their time, and she prayed to anything that might be listening that she wouldn’t be late for their scheduled reception in the throne room of Asgard. The universe seemed to side with her, just this once; a cluster of guards (sporting, she noted, even more horned helms - seriously, what was it with this place and horns?) approached, informing the party that they would be shown to an area where they could bathe after the long journey, with clothing provided by their noble hosts. The party shared excited whispers at that, and the group split by gender to visit the bathing rooms. The woman savored the warm, lightly floral water that awaited them there, and took care to make sure her hair was properly washed - she’d cut it short some time ago, and the longest bits came down only to her chin soaking wet, but when it got greasy she felt like shaving the whole of it off. All of the women had short hair by requirement, varying from bobs just shy of shoulder length to fully shaven heads. It made sense for them, in their line of work, to not have an abundance of hair getting in the way. They’d been told that an adequate excuse would be that there had been sickness after the marauders came, and that it tended to cling to hair and clothing, so most everyone had gone through with a big chop. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but the actuality of the situation couldn’t be revealed yet. Asgard only communicated with about three other realms, though occasionally one here or there would make contact or vice versa. Their home was not among them, but Vanaheim was, and they had agreed to let the party use their realm as a cover. The communal bath was getting a bit louder now that all of the women had relaxed a bit more, and the woman who would be called Sigrid for an indefinite period made small talk with some of her fellow members as she scrubbed away sweat and grime.

True to the guards’ word, there were simple gray dresses waiting for the women in an area adjacent to the baths. The room was lined with wooden benches, housing the clothing and accessories the palace provided. The sleeves of the dresses were wrist-length, and the linen hung almost to the floor around the feet of most of those present. Long brown leather belts were arranged to one side and were used to cinch the fabric at the waist. The length caused a couple of feet of leather to hang loosely in front, swaying gently as the women moved about, but every few inches from tip to tip were stitched bands where pouches could be tied. Additionally, there was an assortment of simple but sturdy leather slippers accumulated under each of the benches, in a wide enough arrangement of sizes for everyone to find a pair that fit comfortably. The women with long enough hair arranged their locks into simple braids, securing them with small lengths of fabric that had been discovered by a small woman called Astrid. A few unfamiliar women - servants, Sigrid guessed, clad in the same disinteresting but functional clothing the women of the party now wore - entered, bidding them to follow along. The reception would begin as soon as the party was whole again. Sigrid easily took up the lead, her companions following along with just as sure a step behind her. They were led down gleaming halls of dark marble and gold before being stopped in front of a pair of large, ornately-carved doors. The party’s men were there already, clad in similarly-colored outfits of linen pants and tunics, with similar brown leather accessories here and there. One of the men, Amund, met her gaze with a small bit of trepidation in his eye as he nervously rubbed a bare arm. She gave a firm, reassuring nod before focussing back on the double doors. From within, a voice sounded out.

“Presenting the refugees of Vanaheim, led by village elder Steinar Einarsson, to the Allfather of the Nine Realms,” rumbled the voice, clear as it echoed even through the thick doors. Oh dear. Sigrid braced herself for the questioning that would no doubt arise when she stepped forward as the lead. The doors swung open into a massive room, crowded with a surprising number of Asgardian citizens. The walk to the front of the platform on which Odin’s throne perched was lined with guards, all in their gleaming uniforms. The floor was the same dark marble as the rest of the palace they’d seen so far, but etched with intricate, swirling designs. To the left of the throne stood a gracefully composed woman, hair swirled in a delicate updo of blonde curls and dressed in an elegant powder-blue gown. Farther to the side, a man built like a fortress with equally golden hair as the woman to his right decked in red and silver towered with an unmistakable air of pride. At the end of the row, a lithely-formed man in green and black watched them carefully. To the right of the throne, positioned slightly lower than the left three, were three men in battle-ready armor and a woman in much the same fashion. Odin sat dead-center, as golden-clad as the palace he called home, fist wrapped around a spear as he regarded the party’s approach. 

Once in front of the throne, Sigrid was the first to bow the same way she had in front of Heimdall, this time tilting her head to the ground.

“Where,” Odin began, voice reverberating off of metal walls and ceilings, “is your village elder, girl?”

Sigrid cleared her throat, sorting the words out in her head before daring to speak them. “My name, Your Majesty, is Sigrid Steinarsdottir, daughter of Steinar Einarsson. My father, our elder, was taken by the plague that decimated our village following the marauders’ attacks. I have accepted the role of elder as my father’s firstborn in his wake, and on his behalf, as well as on the behalf of the people of the village of Einarrsim, I thank you and your citizens for allowing us safe passage and refuge.” She mentally crossed her fingers that the lie she’d spun would be accepted.

“Yes. We received word of the sickness affecting the western parts of Vanaheim. We did not, however, receive word of a change in leadership,” replied the Allfather. His tone wasn’t exactly friendly, but he didn’t sound angry or irritated, so she was willing to count it as a win.

“Unfortunately, Your Majesty, he was lost only days ago after living with the sickness for two months. We hadn’t time to inform the court of his passing,” Sigrid said, letting an ounce of emotion tighten her throat at the end. Her eyes, however, remained clear. The Allfather’s head moved almost imperceptibly in a short nod of understanding.

“On to the matter at hand. How many are in your party, and what would you do for Asgard while here?” he asked. He remained nearly unsettlingly neutral, a very picture of authority.

“Your Majesty, there are two dozen other than myself, equally divided between male and female. Our youngest are no younger than eighteen; our oldest have not yet seen their mid-thirties. We are capable of any work Your Highness would have us do; we are, of course, forever indebted to your kindness,” Sigrid answered, careful not to slip her tone of humility into one of flattery. 

“Very well. Your people may stay here, elder, as servants in the palace. They will be free as those in charge of them see fit to explore our great realm. Those in charge of the servants here will assign you all duties. Am I clear?” Odin’s power, as well as his word choice, left little room for argument. They had known that they would likely be assigned jobs, and to work in the palace was probably better than being hired out by Asgardian citizens. 

“Yes, Your Highness. Though, I must respectfully ask for two additional things,” Sigrid stated, her voice seeming louder in the endlessly echoing chamber. Odin’s visible eyebrow raised, and he motioned for her to continue. “All I ask is for understanding and patience. Understanding, that my people may well come to me in search of my authority when they feel uncomfortable, and patience with them if or when they do. We’ve been fairly isolated for generations, Your Highness, and we’re set in our ways. Please forgive us for that.”

“Understandable. If that is all, I hereby publicly acknowledge the people of Einarrsim as protected refugees and servants of the state of Asgard. May your time here be fruitful,” announced the Allfather with a rap of his spear on the ground. The announcement was met with polite applause, and Sigrid lowered her head to them in recognition. She then gave a quick bow to the people still standing to the left of the throne, who she now recognized as the remainder of the royal family.

The party made their way back into the hallway, where a man and woman, both in slightly more elaborate versions of their servant’s garb, stood to direct them. They introduced themselves as Bjarne and Bodhil, two of the servants’ overseers. Bjarne started sectioning off the men, telling each their jobs as stable hands or armory assistants. (The latter, he explained, were responsible for polishing the weapons and armor used for sparring matches.) Bodhil spoke to the women, assigning a portion to the kitchens and another to housekeeping. Sigrid was pulled slightly aside.

“I can’t say I feel comfortable putting a village elder in the kitchens to polish silver, or in housekeeping to fold sheets. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to assign you as a personal maid to Prince Loki,” Bodhil said gently. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, with a gentle air about her. Her hair, though thin and straight, was pulled into a neat, soft bun near the crown of her head, a few strands here and there wisping around her face. Her eyes were kind, and the way they creased at the outer edges showed years of smiles and laughter. 

“Anything you assign me, I will be more than happy to do,” replied Sigrid with a soft grin. 

“I will warn you,” Bodhil said, seriousness weaving its way into her words, “that the Prince can be… much to deal with. He’s got quite the mischievous streak, and his moods seem to change every few seconds, but rarely does he get bad enough to be at all violent.” Sigrid thought about her training, the emotional aspect of it. She knew well enough how to put people around her at ease, and, the little voice inside her head whispered, if she could get the Prince to trust her, perhaps he’d provide a good amount of insight into whether or not Asgard would comply with what they wanted. Yes, she thought, she’d be around him probably on a daily basis to attend to his chambers, so eventually, she must have the opportunity to speak with him.

“I can handle it,” Sigrid said confidently. Bodhild told her she would start tomorrow, and to be in the Prince’s chambers at eight o’ clock sharp the following morning so he could give her a schedule to follow. While she was at it, Bodhild told her the quickest way to his room from the servants’ wing. 

Shortly thereafter, the party and the overseers made their way to their new home. The beds were arranged to house sixteen people per room, with eight bunk beds arranged around the quarters. The communal baths they had visited earlier were for the servants and were just down the hall from their living space. Everyone was allowed a chest to store clothes other than workwear and any trinkets they may have with them. The dining hall was farther down, and the party was able to make their way to supper after getting settled in. Supper consisted of meat that Sigrid could only liken to tough beef, some kind of mashed potato-type side, hearty rolls, and Asgardian honey mead. After one glass of it, she decided water would probably be best as her head was already spinning. Other servants occasionally stopped by to introduce themselves, but between the noise and the mead, she couldn’t remember many of them.

After the meal, they ventured back to the living space, changed into their nightclothes, and slid into bed. Sigrid snuggled into the surprisingly soft mattress before a dreamless, peaceful sleep overtook her.

 

* * *

 

Bodhil woke the women up at six in the morning. Sigrid stretched, pulling herself out of bed and padding down to the baths, her bare feet protesting the cold of the marble beneath her. The water was scorching in comparison to the chill of the palace. She took her time bathing, enjoying the feel of it until it didn’t feel warm any more. As she got dressed, she noted a clock in the adjoining room that read 7:30. She made her way up the stairs Bodhil had told her to take in order to get to Prince Loki’s chambers. By the time she was standing outside his door, she guessed it was time to go inside. With a gentle knock at the gilded doors (Asgardians and their gold, she thought), she stood in wait.

“Come in,” drifted a voice from within. It was velvet-smooth, with just the faintest hint of sleep still lingering. She let herself inside, spotting the dark-haired prince sitting gracefully on a chaise lounge, dressed in formal-looking leathers.

With a bowed head, she said, “Hello, my lord. My name is Sigrid, and I’ve been assigned as your personal housekeeper.”

“Look up at me,” responded the voice, unexpectedly close. She jumped a bit when she raised her eyes to him, only to find him less than a foot in front of her. She hadn’t even heard his boots against the stone of the floor. His voice was light, and for the first time, she got a proper look at his face. Everything about him was sharp and narrow, with the sole exception of a pair of blue-green eyes, round and bright, with a faint set of smile lines around the outer ends. He was disarmingly attractive, she realized. Then again, that was true of the Aesir in general. 

“I know your name, or have you forgotten that I was at your reception already?” he asked, moving forward slowly. On instinct, Sigrid backed up, but his voice didn’t sound menacing. He sounded… amused? Her brows knitted together at his tone, but she responded nonetheless.

“Of course not, my lord. I must admit, though, I don’t usually expect people to remember me,” she said. That much was true; she had a decently normal appearance and had always liked that it gave her the ability to blend in with crowds.

“Oh, but of course I remember you, Vanir. Having to take the role of village elder at such a young age must be difficult, no?” he asked, still moving in. 

“I suppose it would be, were we still in the village, my lord, but here I’m happy to just be a refugee and a servant,” she answered, shuffling backward. Her back bumped the closed door, and still, he moved further in.

“But that’s not what you are, is it?” he whispered playfully. “You aren’t a refugee if you aren’t Vanir; none of our other allies are in need of asylum. So, Sigrid Steinarsdottir, what are you?”


	2. Employment

Her composure was her greatest strength. Years of training for high-stress situations had certainly helped developed it. However, with the crown prince of Asgard staring unwaveringly down into her very soul, the strong face she always projected flickered out.

“Your Highness, I’ve no idea what you speak of,” she choked out, despising the heat she could feel rushing to her cheeks.

“Please, little elder, don’t take me for a fool. They don’t call me the god of lies for nothing; I can always weed them out,” Loki replied, a sharp edge just below the teasing surface. “Unless, of course, you’d like to make things difficult. I can arrange that.”

The last thing she wanted was to make things difficult. She fought with herself over how much she should reveal to the prince, before settling on the basics.

“Fine,” she said, voice dropping out of its faux Aesir accent. “You got me. I’m not from Vanaheim. I’m not a refugee. I’m not a village elder. Einarrsim doesn’t exist - not anymore, at least. The plague was real. It completely wiped out the village.”

“You aren’t answering my question. What are you?” Loki repeated, interest now thoroughly piqued. She breathed out a sigh before beginning.

“I’m a mortal. I work for a group of people that need the help of Asgard, and we don’t know if you’ll grant it. I can’t tell even the crown prince any more than that, for the sake of my people.” She knew by the pit in her stomach she shouldn’t have told him anything at all, a suspicion that was only confirmed by the prince’s smile dropping altogether and morphing into a nasty grimace that twisted his fine features sharply down.

“You walk into  _ our  _ kingdom, ask  _ us  _ to help  _ you _ ,  _ lie  _ to the highest authority in Asgard, and have the  _ audacity  _ to march to  _ my  _ quarters first thing in the morning to tell  _ your prince _ that everything you have claimed thus far is a  _ lie _ ?” he hissed, any semblance of his earlier playfulness completely evaporated. She felt something cool and sharp pressed against her neck. “I could end you where you stand, you traitorous wench. You are aware of that, aren’t you?” 

_ Shit _ , she thought. The gears of her mind were spinning at full speed, trying to figure out the best reaction other than pure fear. The adrenaline that accompanied what felt like a dagger at her jugular certainly aided in the decision-making process. 

“Don’t you want to be king?” she forced out. The prince’s face transformed from thinly-veiled rage into utter confusion, and she took the opportunity to continue before he could voice any response. “The job of a king is to rule, is it not? Ruling over a kingdom involves protecting its inhabitants. Your aspiration is surprisingly close to my reality. All I care to do is protect my people, all of whom are not in Asgard. I can’t tell you where they are, but again, it’s for their safety. I’m not above begging, and that’s what I’m doing. Please, for the sake of everyone any of us hold dear, please do not expose my fellow visitors. We’ll do exactly as we said we would, I swear.” 

At some point during her little speech, she noticed that he had pulled the blade away from her throat a bit. It was still there, hovering in her periphery, but its razor tip was no longer burrowing into the soft flesh of her neck. The prince’s eyes had moved from her own to the middle distance, consideration of her words creasing his forehead and brow as he thought. A small hum echoed from his throat before his eyes focused back on hers. He narrowed his gaze at her for a moment before the glint of mischief resurfaced.

“Well… Sigrid, you said. I can’t very well allow your trespasses to go unpunished, but I see no reason to let my father decide your punishment, nor to jeopardize your people. I will allow you to continue your little ruse, not because you have persuaded me to do so, but because I’m interested in how and when this scheme of yours shall fall apart. In return for my confidentiality, you must swear to do whatever I ask of you, whenever I ask it, with no questions. Do you accept my most gracious offer?” Loki smiled. There was something predatory about the expression that reminded her far too much of a rabid dog bearing its teeth. She considered him briefly. She didn’t want to accept. Hadn’t she heard him referred to as the god of lies, of mischief, of trickery? What would stop him - what  _ could  _ \- if he decided his word was no longer worth keeping over the amusement of her failure? However, she knew, though she was loathe to admit it, that his offer was indeed gracious. At least, more so than throwing the whole party in the dungeons to rot.

“I accept,” she said, keeping her voice even. She reinstated the imitation accent, trying to force herself to get used to the way it felt in her mouth.

“Of course you do, little elder,” he smirked. The mocking tone of her faux title brought an ounce of indignant heat to her face. “On another note - after this conversation, you  _ will  _ use my title. You’re but a servant here, after all. Now, you did say you were to be my personal housekeeper?” he paused as she nodded her confirmation. “Not anymore. Tell the head of the female staff - Broadbill, perhaps it was? - that I have appointed you as my handmaiden - my assistant, of sorts. What fun we’ll have, little elder!” Loki turned and walked over to a low table in front of a grand fireplace while the woman frowned at his name for Bodhil. He plucked something up, concealing it entirely within his palm, and slid back over to the woman still pressed cautiously against the metal door behind her. He stopped a few feet in front of her, beckoning her to move forward. She did, reluctantly. 

“I awake around seven each morning. I expect you to be here when I wake up. I will inform you of any pressing matters and dismiss you when you aren’t needed. This will be my primary method of contacting you. You are to have it on your person at all times, though whether you wear it or not will be up to you. That said, I wouldn’t mind seeing it around your neck every time I see you,” he stated, dangling a golden chain from one extended forefinger. Hanging in the middle was a steep, straight-edged teardrop, punctuated at the bottom tip by a small, rectangular emerald that gleamed brightly from its resting place.  She reached out a hand, only for a larger, paler one to bat it away. Loki stepped around behind her, clasping the chain behind her neck. She felt the stone pulse gently with an energy not entirely unlike that of the Bifrost. Magic, she presumed, which was a force she was pretty much entirely unfamiliar with. As Loki moved in front of her once again, her hand made its way back to the stone. The metal around it was cool and settled easily against her skin. It was, she thought, quite the pretty necklace. As much as she didn’t want Loki to think she was at all concerned with what did and did not please him, she easily saw herself wearing the pendant most of the time. It was too pretty to keep in a pocket, she decided, and that would be the end of it. 

“Thank you, my lord,” she told him. Her gratitude was met with a noncommittal wave.

“It’s nothing to me, little elder,” he said, and she groaned inside at his apparent new nickname for her. “Unfortunately, you’re not needed today. I haven’t anything planned, at any rate. Should anything change, I’ll call for you. Actually, I’ll call for you either way; you’ll be expected to accompany me to dinner, but we’ll see if I need you prior to that. You’re dismissed,” the prince finished with another wave of his hand. She moved to bow, but before she could properly lower herself, he was gone. He hadn’t walked away; he just… vanished. In his place was nothing but the cool palace air. She heaved a heavy sigh. This would be a long assignment, then. 

Great.

 

* * *

 

The walk back to the servants’ quarters was quiet and just a bit uncomfortable. No one else occupied the vast halls, and if she hadn’t known any better, she would easily believe the palace to be completely devoid of life. It wasn’t until she stepped into the equally-empty living quarters that she remembered that everyone else would be working now. She thought she remembered Bodhil saying that she’d be in the kitchen today, but she’d been so bogged down by sleep deprivation for the past few days in preparation for and during the journey to Asgard that one night’s peaceful slumber was enough to blur the edges of her recent memories. 

The voyage to the kitchen was even more difficult than that to the realm, she decided. At least in coming to Asgard, she had known how and where the party was to move. The palace was massive, and she hadn’t realized until she’d been walking for an hour that she never was told where the kitchens were. She guessed that the palace was a bit too large and the workforce a bit too populous to afford them the luxury of a tour of any important locations. She stopped in front of a large window, peering out into the realm beyond. Several stories down, the royal gardens shone green in the sunlight. Occasionally, a figure would make their way across one of the main paths, but none of them ever stayed for very long. Instead, it seemed like everyone who made their way through the flora did so just for the paths the garden offered. Well, everyone except for one. She was too far up to get a good look at whoever it was, but one person had strolled into the garden, holding what looked like an open book, and had disappeared under one of the trees that freckled the layout. From here, she had a complete view of the place, and she never did see anyone emerge. Not that she looked for very long; she heard footsteps in the hall and turned to see who was coming. (Her motivation was one part fear of being reprimanded for being a servant lazing about at the window and one part hope that it was another worker in the palace who could tell her where exactly the kitchens were. 

Luck was on her side this time; the owner of the footsteps was Amund, one of the party members that she could truthfully say she knew beyond the rules of the group. She wasn’t sure where he’d been assigned, though she thought she’d heard him placed in the armory. He spotted her and jogged over with a grin.

“Sigrid! What are you doing hanging out up here?” he asked. His accent was solid, though she wasn’t exactly surprised by that - it sounded like a heavily polished version of his normal speech.

“I could ask you the same thing, Amund. I thought you were armory,” she responded. 

“I am. I’m on a mission for the head of defense. Don’t know why he chose me of all people to be his errand boy. Maybe I was just the first poor little fucker he saw. Either way, I’m supposed to find Prince Thor and tell him that someone fixed the handle on his hammer. Apparently he’s missed it. Your turn to tell me why you’re up here bullshitting about,” he rambled, rubbing at his forearms. He kept staring at them, looking for the missing features, but all he found was smooth, lightly-tanned skin. 

“It’s a bit embarrassing, to be honest. I’ve been promoted to Loki’s assistant, and I’m supposed to find Bodhil to tell her as much, but I don’t know where anything is. I don’t suppose you could point me towards the kitchens or housekeeping, could you? If I find one, surely someone can direct me to the other if she’s not there,” she told him. 

“Actually, you’re in luck. Immediately upon entering the sparring ring in the armory, I got horse shit on these linen trousers. Linen is a shit trouser material. Anyway, I guess they’d been jousting or some such fuckery earlier and no one had half the brain to think that maybe removing the manure would be a lovely idea, so I had to fuck off to housekeeping and get new horrible linen trousers. Don’t know why these golden old fucks haven’t learned about denim yet, for fuck’s sake,” Amund ranted. She smiled at him, finding his overuse of the word ‘fuck’ and its derivatives oddly comforting. “They’re down this hall to the left. Smells class in there, like fancy soap and what have you. Can’t miss it, Sig.”

She bid him thank you and farewell, following the hall farther down. Sure enough, as she got closer to a hall that adjoined the one she was in on the left, a soapy smell akin to jasmine and vanilla wafted towards her. She followed it to a closed oak door. Behind it, she could hear the voices of servants talking idly over rushing water. She pushed the door open gently, coming up short when she saw the extent of the housekeeping room. Okay, more like… an above-ground cave with no connection to any mountains or ground. A fountain took up the right wall of the chamber, spilling crystalline waters into a stream that cut lazily around the room in loose, waving patterns before coming to rest in a shallow pool. A drain at its rim in the left wall kept the room from flooding, and around the pool sat thirty-something women laundering clothing from wide wicker baskets that set aside them. They smiled at each other, letting gentle conversation provide the backing music to the chore at hand. On the wall the door was set into, gilded carts of cleaning supplies, all held in delicate glass decanters, were parked neatly in a single-file line, with the only gap provided being the exact length of the fully-opened door. She thanked her lucky stars when she caught sight of a woman with a familiar tightly-kept bun of light, wispy hair turned towards the pool, beating smooth river stones against the leg holes of a pair of men’s linen trousers, stained a deep brown. She prayed they weren’t Amund’s. She slid in beside Bodhil, removing a men’s linen top with a smear of rust across the arm, and silently began washing as those around her did. She didn’t expect Bodhil to reject her offered help, but those expectations were shattered as the older woman gave her an indignant glare.

“What are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be in the prince’s service!” she scolded, turning her attention away from the stone and trousers.

“That’s actually why I came to see you, ma’am. The prince bade me tell you he’s appointing me as his assistant,” Sigrid responded with a smile. Bodhil eyed her suspiciously.

“His assistant, or his handmaiden?” the supervisor asked.

“Well, his handmaiden, but he certainly phrased it as though he meant something more along the lines of an assistant,” she responded, a slight warmth touching her ears. He had said as much… hadn’t he? Bodhil sighed, sending her a knowing glance.

“You wouldn’t be the first. I’ve had his handmaids come to me a few times before. He - well - he seems to be rather fond of playing tricks on the girls. He’s fond of his tricks in general, but with his personal staff even more so. I’ve never heard of it being anything inappropriate, but there’s a reason he didn’t have an ‘assistant’ when you walked in that room. It’s too much for most of the girls, and the ones who can take it are either dismissed or their time at the palace comes to an end before then.” Bodhil resumed her work on the trousers. “Just… be aware. Of him.”

“Will do, ma’am,” the younger woman replied. “If it’s all the same to you, I haven’t a thing to do until the prince’s supper. Might I stay here and help? I hate being useless when there’s work to be done.”

“Sure,” Bodhil said with a smile. She thrust the trousers into the woman’s hands. “You can start with these. One of your villagers already managed to get familiar with the horses.”

Damn it, Amund.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picture the pendant/necklace however you wish, but it's based off of [this](https://www.kloiberjewelers.com/jewelry-item/contemporary-emerald-pendant-2/) actual necklace i found that is both very beautiful and very expensive  
> yikes! sorry it takes me forever to write; i've been working on this chapter since like two days after i posted chapter one lmao  
> sorry this one's shorter, but world building or whatever. i'll try to make the next one longer and the update quicker, but again, no promises because it takes me a While to write and i'm shit at doing it in advance  
> also, for context, in this tale, asgardian servitude is kind of like indentured servitude - the bulk of palace workers are there because of some debt they owe the crown. there are also refugees (like the party) from allied realms, who work there as a means to support themselves until they can either return home or assimilate into society. there are also a number of servants who work for the crown of their own volition, mostly because they couldn't keep a business of their own or find a job in the city.


	3. Service, Part I

Dinner was a meal that Agdis had always loved. Some of her earliest memories consisted of nothing more than playing with her father in the den while her mother cooked the evening meal, humming songs from her youth gently in the kitchen. Her mother wasn’t the greatest cook in the world, she knew, but one would have a hard time convincing her of that. All Agdis knew was that family dinners were always served around six o’clock, and the meals Mama brought to the table were always warm and comforting. Even when Agdis had moved out on her own, left to her own devices and less-than-impressive food preparation skills, she had thought of dinner in an oddly romantic light, or at least a nostalgic one. 

Asgard changed that almost instantly.

Agdis had (foolishly, she now realized) been grateful to be put on kitchen duty, at first. She thought life would now consist of peeling potatoes with fellow party members, working at a leisurely pace, stirring new and delicious sauces or stews, and gently polishing used silver. That was not correct. The moment she had entered the kitchen in the morning, Herfrithr, the kitchen overseer, had scolded her for not having her red-brown hair in the tightly-braided circlet that the rest of the female staff possessed. The entire morning had been spent polishing eating utensils, which would have been easier had there not been at least a thousand of every imaginable variety of fork, spoon, and knife - half of which looked like they had never been touched with anything but the cotton flannel squares used to make them gleam in their slots. The polishing pissed Agdis off enough as it was, but the cabinet used to store the silverware only exacerbated the situation. The monstrous thing seemed to be hewn from a wood between mahogany and cherry in hue, sealed to a blindingly glossy finish. The drawers for the silverware were wide, with pearlescent knobs bracketed by gold. The slot for each variety of utensil was lined with an iridescent white satin that seemed to shift between soft pink and glimmering champagne in the light. It was, as the entire cabinet, spotless. The upper portion of the storage cabinet was used for the china, most of which also gleamed with lack of use. She found herself, after the 400th spoon she polished, cursing anyone and everyone who used the cutlery or china.

As the day dragged on, dinner preparations began to emerge. After a one-hour lunch break that, for the kitchen staff, consisted of a sliced apple and a few cheeses made from god knows what, Agdis was brushed over into the clump of ten to fifteen young women who were slicing all manner of vegetables that she had never before laid eyes on. One was blue, with long, sharp, softly purple spikes that had to be handled with special gloves; one was dark green, with flesh the color of the water one uses to clean a paintbrush that’s had seven hues loaded onto its bristles; another looked a bit like a cucumber, but in shades of dusty pink. Agdis finally spotted familiar produce among the collection - a small pile of sweet yellow onions, like the ones her father grew in the backyard of her childhood home. She took up residence in the onion-chopping area, chopping through the layers with ease. She caught herself trying to push loose hairs out of her eyes with her hand, switching over to using her wrist to sweep away the thin auburn strands so as not to irritate her already-sensitive eyes. (The irritation she was experiencing, she deduced, must have stemmed from those pink cucumbers, as they were the closest produce being prepared other than the onions.) As dinner really approached, the kitchens that had been quiet all day went into a frenzy. Meat was being cut and portioned here, vegetables there, sides on the stove, kegs of something pale yellow and sweetly-scented (and certainly alcoholic) being tapped and loaded onto carts, wines from the cellar being brought up and placed in ice, and Agdis in the middle, trying not to get lost in the fray.

Herfrithr noticed, of course, and yanked the young woman aside. 

“Well, new girl, since you seem to want to stand around doing nothing, I’ll give you a special job! You get to serve the royals their mead,” she snapped, pushing a clean apron with subtle golden embroidering around the edges into Agdis’s hands. “Get moving!”

She did as she was told, hurrying over to the barrel-laden carts. They had already been packed with mugs underneath. Another party member, Tuva, donned a similar apron and joined her.

“Mead duty, huh? What even  _ is  _ mead?” Tuva asked. Tuva’s braid had started fraying, as had Agdis’s, and the latter set about correcting them both. Tuva took over once she realized that Agdis had no idea how to work with her thick, textured curls.

“Beer or something. I’m really not sure. How do you braid so fast?” Agdis responded, still fumbling a quarter up her scalp while Tuva was nearly done.

“Years of practice. You know, I wish they’d calm down with all the gold. It’s starting to hurt my eyes,” she said, securing the final strand of hair into its twisting crown and taking Agdis’s in her hands. “Also, if I ever get the chance to say as much, I’m filing a complaint about these dinners. No one needs this much food.” Agdis nodded her agreement, unable to respond as Herfrithr stood at the doors and shushed everybody. She exited the kitchen, hands held gently behind her back, and called, “Dinner is served, my lieges.”

The mead carts were waved on in, followed by rolling tables loaded with fine, steaming food. Agdis felt her stomach rumble at the scent. She looked at the table of royals, really taking them in for the first time. The king, the queen, the princes, Prince Thor’s friends, and - 

Sigrid?

Agdis tried not to gape. That lucky bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slow going and short update! this and the next chapter i post were originally just going to be one chapter, but i felt bad about the lack of uploading and decided to cut it a bit.  
> i'm playing with switching around focus characters every few chapters, just to see how it works. this one is agdis, who i love very much and am very excited to bring in further. i've been very busy the past month, so please bear with me, but since it'll be a continuation/alternate view of this, it should be a little sooner than this was.  
> as always, i thrive off of feedback, so feel free to leave some (͡• ͜໒ ͡• )

**Author's Note:**

> this here is my first attempt at a multi-chapter loki fic. i'm going to aim for somewhat regular updates here, but i don't write chapters ahead of time very often so we'll see.   
> feedback is always welcome, even if you think this thing sux, so, y'know, hit me with a comment or smth


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